


Apocalypse II: The Re-Reckoning

by qwanderer



Series: in the habit of saving the world [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Epic, F/M, M/M, Other, Philosophical Weirdness, Swedenborgian Influences, The Apocalypse (Again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: "You know,” she said, bouncing her third child on her knee, “this isn’t really my job anymore. I might still be an occultist but I’m less professional descendant and more professional ancestor.” But her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the prophecies, anyway.“I know,” Aziraphale agreed. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think the Earth was in imminent danger.”The baby girl in Anathema’s lap looked between the two of them with wide eyes. Aziraphale still wasn’t sure how babies worked, exactly, but he was fairly certain the child couldn’t be following everything they said.
Relationships: Adam Young/Jeremy Wensleydale, Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Brian/ONBC, Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling & Pepper
Series: in the habit of saving the world [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1506125
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82





	Apocalypse II: The Re-Reckoning

It was a Thursday, when Aziraphale learned the Apocalypse was close again.

It had been a nice evening, before he found it. They’d been sipping some very old single-malt Scotch whiskey given to Aziraphale by a friend who worked in a distillery and who’d said something about “making sure the angels get their share” after Aziraphale had blessed the whole place. Aziraphale was idly flipping through his notes on the Further Prophecies with one hand, while with the other he played with Crowley’s hair as the demon slouched against him.

But then Aziraphale stiffened slightly, fingers ceasing their motions, and Crowley made an interrogative noise.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “I think we’re going to have to tell Anathema about the book.”

“Why?” Crowley drawled. “Is the world ending again?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together thoughtfully before saying, “I very much hope not.”

Crowley’s only response to that was to reach for Aziraphale’s hand, and clasp it tight.

-

The funny thing about the Archangel Raphael is, he doesn’t seem to exist.

He’s been on the rolls since the beginning, but no one has ever seen him. The angel who would be Crowley had once asked the Almighty if the listing was a mistake, and the Almighty had replied, “No, it’s not a mistake. Now, hush, my child.”

Humans had had visions of Raphael, and if you asked an angel to test the divinity of those visions, the angel would reach out with their essence, cautiously, like a human trying to see if something is too hot to touch, and with widened eyes, they’d say, “It does seem to be true divine inspiration.”

We know this because this is what Aziraphale did when Crowley first asked him to check.

Raphael was not on the confirmed list of the Fallen, nor on the confirmed list of Heaven’s ranks after the war, but he remained on the list of the First Created kept by both sides. 

Raphael is, in fact, pretty much a complete mystery.

But not for long.

-

“They’re going to try again,” Aziraphale explained to Anathema on Friday afternoon, spreading out his notes on the relevant prophecies in front of her, on a hastily cleared table in the closed bookshop. “And it’s going to be soon.”

“You know,” she said, bouncing her third child on her knee, “this isn’t really my job anymore. I might still be an occultist but I’m less professional descendant and more professional ancestor.” But her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the prophecies, anyway.

“I know,” Aziraphale agreed. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think the Earth was in imminent danger.”

The baby girl in Anathema’s lap looked between the two of them with wide eyes. Aziraphale still wasn’t sure how babies worked, exactly, but he was fairly certain the child couldn’t be following everything they said. 

He hoped not, at least, the poor thing.

“So you’ve seen these signs?” Anathema asked, eyes on his notes. “You drank the - ”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “The angels’ share. And the others. They’ve been getting increasingly specific over the last few days.”

“If you’ve got this all figured out,” she asked him, “what do you need me for?”

“I can see clearly enough what the danger is,” Aziraphale told her. “Heaven and Hell will be going on the march, and Earth will be destroyed. But it’s these hints at some kind of solution that I can’t seem to decipher.” He tapped the text of a particular prophecy.

“The only Adversary who can stand against them is an Angel who never was,” she read. “An angel who never was? What's that mean?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell us, Anathema, dear.”

She frowned in concentration, hefting her daughter higher as she leaned forward to peruse the papers strewn across the table. “Blythe, baby, no hair pulling, all right?” she said absently.

Meanwhile, Crowley paced nervously back and forth across the length of the shop windows. Aziraphale considered sending him for takeout, to give him something to do and to allow Anathema to focus. However, she seemed to have become quite adept at tuning out the idle activity of the people around her.

Her fingers traced the words as she skimmed them. “When orison be braken,” she muttered to herself, looking up at Aziraphale and blinking in wonder.

“I had hoped that referred to some kind of interruption of Heaven’s power on Earth,” he said worriedly. “The boy is all right, isn’t he?”

Crowley’s footsteps stopped abruptly, his attention now focused fully on them.

“He’s fine, Orison broke his arm riding his bike in the dark last night,” Anathema said, with that tone and that twitch in the corner of her mouth which meant she was trying not to show she was amused. “Newt took him to the hospital and he’s staying home with him today. Taiga's at school, of course, but I took Blythe with me to make sure they get some quiet.”

“Like mother, like child, I suppose,” Aziraphale said. “Do let me know if you would like his arm to miraculously heal itself.” He gave a flourish with his hand as if he were about to pull a silk scarf out of somewhere. 

“Give it a few days, at least,” Anathema told him. “We’re trying to teach him to be more careful.”

Aziraphale nodded his acquiescence.

Crowley’s footsteps began again.

“Crowley, dear,” said Aziraphale, “would you be so kind as to run out to that little bakery down in Battersea and see if they have any of those delightful chocolate croissants? I’d like something to nibble while we work on this. And perhaps you could stop by New Covent Garden Market? We could get the boy a get-well-soon present, you know how he appreciates plants. See if anything speaks to you, don’t rush back.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Crowley retorted, marching up to Aziraphale and leaning down to glare at him over the tops of his sunglasses. “Trying to get rid of me, eh?”

“Just for the moment, my darling,” said Aziraphale, and pulled him down into a sweet, soft kiss. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Crowley mumbled and grumbled, but it devolved into, “Mmmyeah okay,” and then he gave Aziraphale another quick kiss and said, “I won’t be long.”

The bell sounded as he left the shop, and the Bentley pulled away from the kerb.

It had been a long time since Crowley’s departure had brought this kind of fear that they might never see each other again.

Anathema’s finger traced over another prophecy and she hummed thoughtfully, taking Aziraphale’s attention away from the retreating car. 

“Anything promising?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not sure,” she said. “I’m following a trail, I think, but I can’t seem to find the next breadcrumb.”

“Mama?” Blythe said, writhing in Anathema’s arms, twisting just enough to reach the cards and bits of parchment on the table.

“Oh, no, honey, don’t…” said Anathema, but Blythe grabbed.

“Bah!” The baby said emphatically, holding up her prize to her mother’s mouth as if it was something to eat.

Anathema took the card and put it back on the table in front of her, so she could smooth out the wrinkles. Then she frowned at it.

The corners of her mouth curled up. She turned to Blythe and said, “You little witch,” in an impressed tone.

Blythe just gurgled smugly.

“So when you do your miracles, you’re still calling on the power of Heaven?” she asked, gaze suddenly intense on him. 

“Well, yes,” he said. “Why?”

“I think there is something here about an interruption of Heaven’s power,” she said, “but it’s not speaking generally. It means you in particular. Listen. Ye cannot bloody the Host on its owne sword. You can’t fight Heaven with the power you draw from Heaven.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale delicately. “That is still my major source of anything approaching what you might call power. And… is there another way to fight them?”

“I might have an idea,” she said. She held up a finger. “I might. Don’t get too excited until I can give it a try. And I think I need to talk to Tracy first, too.”

“What do we do?” Aziraphale asked. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Just a few spell ingredients I can get at home. Then the two of you meet all of us back here in the shop at ten tomorrow. We’ll try the spell then.”

“All of us?” Aziraphale asked, his eyebrows climbing.

“At least me, Newt and the kids. Probably Jess, they’re working here tomorrow, right? And Tracy and Shadwell if they’re willing, and… well. The more people the better, really, but I don’t want to end up pulling a lot of people away from their lives for nothing.”

“You don’t seem optimistic about this spell of yours,” Aziraphale noted. “Shall we see if we can find any other clues here?”

“Might as well,” Anathema agreed, and they were still sitting there, puzzling over the prophecies, when Crowley returned with the requested croissants and a vivid red Christmas cactus in full bloom.

“Oh, how lovely!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“You’re going to spoil my kids absolutely rotten,” said Anathema, but with a kind of vast fondness that seemed to fill the room and banish every other emotion for the moment. 

“Demon,” Crowley said with a shrug as he opened the bakery bag and doled out the contents.

Blythe took an offered handful of chocolate croissant like a queen accepting tribute, and then smashed it gleefully into her face, missing her mouth almost entirely.

-

Once Anathema had gone back home, Crowley collapsed onto the sofa with an enormous sigh.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said, sitting next to him and pulling him closer, “we will get through this. We will find out what Agnes is trying to tell us.”

“Thing is,” said Crowley, and he really didn’t want to say this, but the angel and their human friend had been working so hard all afternoon to decipher the prophecies, and if he had a piece of the puzzle, how could he deny them that? “Thing is, I think I might already know what some of it means.”

“You do?” Aziraphale asked, frowning slightly. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I don’t…” he began, and then, in a quieter tone, “It’s hard enough telling you, Angel. Book girl’s all right and all, but.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said softly, and stroked Crowley’s back, waiting.

“We need an angel that never was, right?” Crowley asked. “Can’t be a human, they’d have to die first and then go through all that enlistment nonsense, right, and training, that takes decades, and at the end of that they’d end up in Heaven’s ranks. So either an angel just… appears… out of nowhere… which, I dunno, we can’t just hope that happens, can we? Or someone who’s not a human or an angel has to turn into an angel.”

“You think… she might mean you?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley couldn’t quite place the emotion in his tone. 

“Don’t go getting disappointed again if I can’t Rise,” Crowley snapped. “Don’t think I could take it.”

“Disappointed?” Aziraphale asked. “...Again? My dear, when did you ever think…?”

“‘Hem, usque adhuc daemon es?’” Crowley quoted, and then, “‘You were an angel once.’”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said so softly, and his hands fluttered close to Crowley’s face before settling there stroking his cheeks, feather-light. “I never meant…”

“I know,” Crowley murmured. “But you hoped.”

“I can’t say that’s entirely false,” Aziraphale admitted carefully, “But. My dear Crowley. My love. I never wanted you to change. I only ever wanted our… situation, your situation, to be better. And we’ve got a pretty good situation now, haven’t we? Being together on our side is better than being an angel of Heaven or a devil of Hell ever could be.” He nudged Crowley’s chin so that the demon was looking at him. “I like you just as you are, and, truth be told, these days, I think I’d be a bit disappointed if you did Rise.”

Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, and took a shaky breath. “Good,” he said, “because I’m pretty sure that’s never gonna happen.”

“And anyway,” Aziraphale said, “this is all academic. The prophecy can’t be talking about you. Because you were an angel once, and if you were to be reinstated, so to speak, that wouldn’t constitute the appearance of an angel that never was. You’d be an angel that was.”

Crowley shook his head slowly, looking suddenly ill again. “No, I wouldn’t. Because even if I could manage? To Rise? I wouldn’t be that angel. I’d be different! And I don’t want to, I don’t think that I can, but what if that’s what the witch is telling us has to happen?”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Aziraphale said, a little desperately. “It’s probably referring to something completely different.” Aziraphale brightened as he realized something. “Maybe we need to find the Archangel Raphael!”

Crowley sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Angel, you and I both know there is not and never has been an Archangel Raphael.”

-

Aziraphale does remember Sodom and Gomorrah.

He remembers pulling Lot back from the door while Gabriel and Sandalphon smote the would-be intruders without a second thought. He remembers taking Lot's hand and bringing him out of the city as gently as he could, because the alternative was worse. He remembers Sandalphon making sure no one else escaped as fire rained down from the heavens.

Crowley doesn't remember these events, although she was in the general area. 

She'd heard that Abraham was slated to be a big shot in the Almighty's books, some kind of prophet maybe, and had gone to stir up trouble as a temptress. Inspire some good old-fashioned lust.

But when she'd got there, Abraham was in no proper state to be tempted that way. Crowley had felt so bad for him that she'd done a quick healing and went to stir up trouble somewhere else.

Later, both deeds were attributed to Raphael.

Neither of the beings in question saw fit to correct this apparent clerical error. They both considered it for the best if their involvement was forgotten.

-

The next morning, instead of scraps of paper and index cards, the table in the bookshop was covered in herbs, crystals and marks made with pink and yellow sidewalk chalk.

“Are the colors important?” Jess asked, watching curiously. They’d been playing with the idea of learning magic after Anathema had taken a peek at their aura and told them they had a spark for it. 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Anathema answered. “But you work with what you have, and I had a couple of old sidewalk chalks worn down to nubs.” She finished the markings and looked up. “Any word from Adam?”

“Nah,” Jess said. “Brian’s trying to track him down for us, though. He and Wensleydale were talking about going down to see Chislehurst Caves this weekend, probably hasn’t got signal there.”

“Wish I’d thought of including him last night,” she said. “Just thought of it on the drive over. If I’m right, he might mean the difference between knowing we’re on the right track or the whole thing just kind of… fizzling out. And if I’m wrong?” She sighed. “He’s the next person I’d go to for help, anyway.”

“So what is this spell supposed to do, anyway?” Jess asked. 

“It forms a protective network,” Anathema explained. “Allows people to pool their resources. A lot of covens use it, or something like it, especially in preparation for intense spellcasting.”

“Will it work on Uncle Az and Ommer AJ?” Taiga asked. “Even though they’re not human?”

“I’m hoping so, kiddo,” Anathema told them. “Tracy, you said you’d been inside his head, right? So you might be able to give me some insight about how human and angelic energies combine.”

“He was in mine,” Tracy corrected, “but more or less. You know, I wanted to become a medium because sometimes I got these… feelings that someone was knocking at a door in my head, and I didn’t know quite where that door was or how to unlock it, but when Aziraphale came knocking… well, he was louder, but it wasn’t ‘cause he was pounding at the door or anything, he was just… bigger, somehow.” She got an amused little look on her face as she thought back. “And so I opened the door and there he was, larger than life. But then the door was open, so I thought, well, I might as well see what Ron actually has to say. And once they’re in the door, they’re pretty much the same, human or angel or what have you. Just people, with thoughts and feelings and intentions and dirty little secrets.”

“Doesn’t sound very comfortable,” Anathema commented. “Knowing that much about someone you just met.”

“Oh, I’ve always been interested in people’s dirty little secrets,” Tracy said with a smirk. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have ended up in either of the businesses I did.”

Anathema’s mouth quirked at the corner in return, before she asked, “So, what does it feel like to do miracles?”

“That door spirits knock on?” Tracy said. “Aziraphale’s head is just full of doors. Always popping in and out of ‘em, to a world where someone just happens to be thousands of miles away from where they just were, or a world where a little Vespa flies up in the air at highway speeds. But when it comes down to the mechanism of it, it all felt like the same stuff I’ve got, just more of it. A lot more of it.”

“Huh,” said Anathema. “D’you think that’s just because all magic works a certain way, or because witches are kind of part of the whole angels-and-demons system?”

“Humans were never supposed to have magic,” Crowley told them, ambling over to inspect the circle. He looked as if he didn’t trust it. “Got a look at the plans when I was in the construction office, Before. Not my division, but I got curious.”

“So how did we get it?” Anathema asked. “Some kind of… intervention? Interbreeding?”

Newt, who had spent the last several years working in a bookshop which specialized partially in bibles and the occult, said, “But it can't be because we have angel or demon blood, the flood wiped out all the Nephilim.”

Crowley made a Noise, something like clearing his throat only somehow more reptilian, and said, “Well. Actually…”

“What did you do, Ommer AJ?” Orison asked, peering up at him.

Crowley hoisted Orison onto his hip, careful of the arm that was in a cast. “I may have herded a bunch of little Nephilim stowaways onto the Ark,” he said in a stage-whisper. “But don’t tell anyone, okay? I have a reputation.”

Orison considered this for a few moments, and then held up his cast to Crowley, saying, “Will you kiss my arm and make it better?”

Crowley turned his head to give Anathema a helpless look, and Anathema chuckled and waved her arm in permission. Then Crowley gave Orison’s cast a dutiful little peck, and snapped his fingers surreptitiously.

“Oh, sweetheart,” said Aziraphale, who had just come out with a large tea tray for all their guests. “She did tell us to wait.”

Crowley just pouted at him.

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale said more softly. “It’s all right.”

“So it’s your fault there are witches?” Anathema asked, steering away from the subject of her son’s miraculous healing by a very scary demon.

“S’pose so,” Crowley said, grinning. “Caused trouble for the Great Plan even way back when.” He looked thoughtful. “Witchfinders, too, probably. If I had to guess, most of ‘em, the real ones, had the spark. ‘S how they could recognize it.”

“Is that what Newt has?” Anathema asked, eyes sparking with interest at this turn in the conversation. “A spark of magic that’s been so pushed down and turned in on itself for so many generations that it just lashes out at the closest thing most humans have to magic?”

“That almost makes sense,” Newt said, from where he was supervising baby Blythe’s toddling. “Computers always seemed like magic to me, even when I thought I understood how they worked and how to use them, because I could never quite seem to get it right.”

He’d been learning to hone and use his little quirk, but it still refused to do anything except stop technology from working. There were a few shop regulars now who came here because they’d had abusers or stalkers whose phones or cameras would suddenly refuse to work if they even came in view of the shop.

“Technically,” Taiga said, “Adam is a new Nephil, right?”

“I suppose you could call him that,” Aziraphale agreed.

“So if he has kids, they could be very strong witches?” they asked. “With a surrogate, I mean. I know he and Wen can’t have biological kids. Unless he could learn to shift, like Ommer AJ does?”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t speculate about that,” Aziraphale said, looking mildly disturbed.

“All right,” Anathema said, putting the last items in place on the circle. “I think we’d better get started. Everybody ready?”

“Is this safe?” Crowley asked. “Won’t it take… energies, or whatever, away from the people who do it?”

“Not… exactly,” Anathema told him. “It’s safe. It won’t take away anything we really need, it just pools the spiritual resources we’re willing to give. And it’s not a one-way street. If anyone in the group needs the energies, they’ll also have access. Once we do this, I could potentially cast spells that no witch in any entirely human coven could even dream of. You two… you’ll be the focuses of the spell, which means you’ll hold the energy when it’s not being used. And you can hold a lot more of it than any of us.”

“All right,” Crowley conceded.

“What do we need to do?” Tracy asked.

“First I’ll need an object from each of you two,” Anathema said, pointing to the angel and the demon. “Something personal, something that you’ve kept on you for a while. Ideally part of you, but I don’t like working with blood or fingernail clippings if I don’t have to, and I wouldn’t want to ruin your haircuts… Oh, that works,” she said as one black feather and one white feather were pressed into her hands. She placed them carefully in the center of the circle, along with a bottle of oil.

“Let this oil mark a bond,” she said, and the lines of the circle glowed orange for half a second, so quickly that it would have been easy to miss.

She picked up the bottle and dotted the oil on the palms of both her hands, and she said, “I hereby dedicate my energies to the cause of the Principality Aziraphale and to the cause of the Demon Crowley.”

“Do you feel that?” Crowley asked, eyebrows climbing as he looked at Aziraphale.

“I believe I do,” said Aziraphale. “Something like a thread, connecting us to you.” He addressed this to Anathema.

“It’s working,” Anathema said, smiling. She turned to her husband. “You up for this, honey?”

“All right,” he agreed, and hoisted Blythe into the air, making her giggle. “Who wants to wrangle this troublemaker for a moment?”

“I will,” Jess volunteered, putting away their phone in favor of turning their attention to the toddler. But Blythe had her eyes fixed on her mother now, and didn’t seem like she was going to be much trouble.

“Newton Pulsifer-Device,” Anathema said, smudging oil on his right palm, “do you agree to dedicate your energies to support the cause of the Principality Aziraphale?”

“Yes,” said Newt.

She smudged oil on his left palm and said, “Do you agree to dedicate your energies to support the cause of the Demon Crowley?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“So shall it be,” Anathema declared, and a second thread twanged into place.

Taiga and Orison got pretty much the same treatment, only for them, Anathema called the angel and the demon “Uncle Az” and “Ommer AJ.” 

“Should we include Blythe?” Newt asked.

“Wanna!” said Blythe.

Anathema shrugged. “She’s got quite the spark, and I suspect she’s already been using it a little. Might be a good idea.” She crouched down in front of her youngest.

“Is this really necessary?” Crowley asked.

“Why leave her out?” Anathema asked. “It won’t hurt her. I promise.”

“Does she understand what the words mean? Does she get what she’s promising?”

“I’ll make sure she understands enough. If she doesn't, it won't work.”

“I don’t.” Crowley’s face scrunched up. “Don’t wanna take anything from her.”

Anathema stood back up and looked Crowley in the face, seeing herself reflected in his dark glasses but knowing him well enough to read him anyway. “You know how I said this is a two-way street?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said.

“I’m not just including her for your sake. If, fates forbid, Blythe ever finds herself in any real danger, she might not have the knowledge or the practice to use magic efficiently, but having access to a big pool of power just waiting to be used certainly isn’t going to hurt.”

Crowley just nodded, slowly and a bit jerkily, unable to refute that. 

Anathema crouched down again. She took Blythe’s much smaller hand in hers and smudged oil on her first palm.

“Blythe Pulsifer-Device, do you want to help Uncle Az with your whole self?” 

“Yah!” 

“Do you want to help Ommer AJ with your whole self?”

“Yah!” 

“So shall it be.”

The thread snapped into place, sturdy and warm and pure, beside the handful of others. Blythe toddled over to Crowley as if she could feel something of what had just happened. She hugged his knees and made a “Mwah” sound.

Crowley didn’t move, but his expression wobbled indecisively.

Aziraphale rescued him by gently uncurling Blythe’s hands from his trousers and picking her up, so she could hug her Uncle Az with tiny hands that were miraculously no longer greasy, although they still smelled of the cloves and caraway that scented the oil.

Next, Anathema added Jess to their circle. The two could feel the weight of the whole, now, rather than just individual threads, as though they had begun to braid together to form a strong cord.

When Tracy was added, she and Aziraphale had a little knowing smile on their faces that was almost identical. 

“This is new,” Tracy said, “but then again, it’s not.”

“Indeed, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you for once again accommodating me in attempting to avert the apocalypse.”

“So,” said Anathema. “Moment of truth. Can you use the power?” She reached to take Blythe out of Aziraphale's arms, so he could focus.

The pair glanced at each other. Aziraphale raised his hand, and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale took a breath, and snapped.

A cup of tea appeared in his hand. 

“Is that it?” Newt asked. “Is it working?”

Aziraphale frowned at the tea, and shook his head. “Oh, no, that was Upstairs. Sorry. Right.” He set the tea down, and snapped again.

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said, turning to Crowley. “Why don’t you try, love?”

Crowley made a number of different faces, apparently mustering his focus, and snapped his fingers. 

“Nope,” he said.

“Huh,” said Anathema. “Because I’m pretty sure I have access. I haven’t been getting tired the way I usually would with this much casting.”

Aziraphale sighed. "Well," he said, "at least we tried." He turned his eyes to Crowley. “Perhaps we still have time to figure something else out.”

"We're not giving up," Anathema said, determined. "There's something to this."

"Do you have something in mind to try?" Crowley asked. "Because I'm having trouble being optimistic when…" He paused suddenly, turning his head at a prompt the others couldn't place, until Aziraphale caught the unmistakable scent of brimstone and bureaucracy, followed by a pop and a burst of ozone and orderliness. He turned his head to look in the same direction as Crowley.

There were two envelopes on the table, next to Anathema's circle. One was grubby and streaked with something black and vaguely greasy, to the point where it was unclear what color the paper had originally been. The other was so pristinely white it seemed to glow with a cool blue intensity. 

"Are those from…?" Newt began. 

"Our former offices, yes," Aziraphale answered. He eyed the pure white envelope with distaste that most people would have reserved for things more like the gunk on the hellish envelope. He picked it up by its edges and slid a letter opener under the flap. 

He slid out the paper inside and looked it over. What he read made his blood run cold. 

He looked at Crowley. "They know," he all but whispered. "About the trial."

"Ffff," began Crowley, then stopped himself when he caught sight of Orison approaching them. 

"You look like you saw something scary, Uncle Az," he said. "Do you need a hug?"

"I could very much use a hug right now, my dear," Aziraphale responded, and scooped the boy up in his arms, hugging him firmly.

"I suppose I'd better…" Crowley sighed, gesturing at the greasy envelope before picking it up by the corner. He read over the contents.

"Yeah," he said, "war's back on. Threatening to destroy us, for real this time, if we don't fall back in line. We’ve got two weeks to think it over. Yours say the same?"

"The warning is framed as a courtesy, rather than a threat," Aziraphale told him, "but in essence, yes."

A cold shiver went right through the room.

"So, explain this to me," Anathema said. "What exactly do the letters say is going to happen next?"

"They're coming to kill us," Aziraphale explained gently. "And we won't be able to trick them a second time."

A hard look made itself at home on Anathema's features. "Then you'll have to face them."

Crowley looked as if he hated the taste of the words he was about to say. "Anathema," he said. "That's probably a death sentence as sure as a second execution, you know that, right?" He took a breath. "I mean, we'll do it. Obviously." He gestured subtly around to the room full of people, old and young, that the two of them considered family. "Just. Don't get your hopes up."

"I know it's serious," Anathema said. "And I know we haven't got a solid plan, not yet. But. Give me another chance. I still think I can make this work."

Crowley's only response to that was to reach for Aziraphale's hand, and hold it tightly. Aziraphale squeezed back in response. They'd face this together, whether they had a chance of surviving or not.

Then the door chimed, and Adam walked in with a cheerful "Hullo!" Wen and Brian trailing in after him.

"Adam!" Anathema greeted him with a huge smile.

"You are way too happy to see me," he said with raised eyebrows. "What's wrong? Why's everyone here?"

"Well, you see, my dear boy," said Aziraphale, "it seems that Heaven and Hell are about to start getting tetchy again."

"Oof," said Adam. "I'm not sure how I can help. I mean, I told them I wasn't going to end the world, and that seemed to do the trick last time, but if they're bound and determined to clear the battlefield themselves, I don't think I can stop them."

"We're not laying all this on you," Anathema hastened to reassure him. "You're still just a kid."

"I'm as old as you were when your family sent you off by yourself to stop Armageddon," Adam countered.

Anathema raised her eyebrows at him, hefting Blythe on her hip, and reached out to squeeze Taiga's shoulder. Taiga was eleven. "Well," she said, "maybe both of us were too young to be handed that much responsibility." She took a breath. "This time, we're all going to stand together right from the start. We're all lending our energies to Crowley and Aziraphale. Would you join the circle?"

"'Course," Adam said, looking relieved that that was all there was to it. "What do I have to do?"

"Just a bit of oil and a pledge," Jess told him. "Felt kinda cool, actually."

Anathema handed Blythe off to Newt again, and stepped forward to administer the spell to Adam, and as he agreed, the angel and demon felt the cord inside them become rope, thick and solid. 

Adam was half demon, after all, even if he'd renounced his parentage. Even if he didn't use his powers for anything much these days. He'd made himself truly his father's child, but as it turned out, that only affected magical claims on him, and not his magical nature itself.

"That does feel cool," Adam agreed. "It's like a reservoir. Make a bigger lake and you can get a bigger splash."

"Can you, though?" Anathema asked.

"Yeah," Adam answered without demonstrating. No one in the room doubted him. "Now, try doing a miracle, each of you. Not from Heaven or Hell. From here." He gestured in a circular fashion at the air in front of him. 

"We tried before," Crowley told him. "Couldn’t get the hang of it."

“Here, look, Crowley," Adam said, gesturing to himself. "Not with your eyes. With, you know, you.”

“Right.” Crowley peered at him.

Adam snapped up, as Crowley did when he was drawing power from Hell. Another biscuit appeared on the plate on the tea tray. “That’s your usual, right?”

“Bog-standard,” Crowley agreed.

“Okay, but now we’re all of us pooled together here, right? So what if you did this?”

Adam twisted his hand as he snapped, like the world turning. Another biscuit appeared, this one with little orange candies in it. 

"Nom," Blythe commented, making grabby hands at it. 

Adam picked it up and delivered it to her with a deep, theatrical bow and a “My lady.”

"I see it," Crowley said, frowning in thought. "I think. Let's try it, then!"

Crowley snapped, giving his hand a twisting motion and copying whatever it was Adam had shown him. An apple appeared in his hand. 

"Serpent," Aziraphale chuckled fondly. 

"Well," Crowley offered, "any takers?"

Wen reached out to pluck the apple out of his hand. "We've had a bit of a rushed morning, between one thing and another," he said. "We could do with a bit of a healthy snack. Right, Adam?"

From Newt, there was a brief sound of a choked-off laugh, and Aziraphale widened his eyes in disbelieving amusement. 

"Well, I don't see the harm," Adam said with a twinkle in his eye, and took the apple in turn, getting out a pocket knife.

Brian and Jess caught each other's eyes before saying, in unison, "Fated."

Wensleydale, finally realizing what exactly he'd done, facepalmed, and a ripple of laughter went through the room.

"Well," said Aziraphale. "I take it that worked?"

Crowley inclined his head. "More or less," he said.

Aziraphale frowned. "Was it or was it not a miracle produced from earthly magic?"

"Yeah," said Crowley, "but. Well. You try it."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, twist and all, and a pear appeared. 

"Ah," he said, the hope in his eyes dimming. "I see."

"What's the problem now?" Anathema demanded.

Crowley shook his head. "It’s not enough. A couple little miracles and the reserve drains right down."

"Thank you for trying so hard," Aziraphale told her gently. "It’s working, but it’s not large scale enough. Not nearly. Not to fight Heaven and Hell together." 

Their eyes fell on the ominous little notes.

"Then we can get more people," Anathema said with palpable determination.

"Do you know that many witches?" Aziraphale asked dubiously.

"Not witches," she said. "Just people."

"Is that all? Just anyone? No magic required?" Crowley asked. "Then why was Adam necessary?"

"He doesn’t add more because he’s magical," Anathema said thoughtfully. "He adds more because he’s human, but on a larger scale than most of us. The first time I even caught a glimpse of his aura, I was on a plane back to America to visit my mom. It’s huge. But it looks the same as any human’s, when you get right down to it.”

“He does love a very great deal,” Aziraphale said, nodding. “It saturates the things around him.”

"But, wait," said Crowley. "You said you were including Blythe because she might be able to make use of the magic."

"Yeah," Anathema agreed. "Any magic user in the circle should be able to draw on it. But you don't need magic to add to the reserves. It's a defensive linking spell, so as the focuses of the spell, it's your power and your responsibility to defend other people in the circle when you can. But you'd already be doing that. Not just for us, but for all humanity. You love all of us too much to do anything else."

There was a moment of solemn acknowledgement.

"And that's what the spell's about, in the end. No matter how it's used. It's about protecting the people you love."

"So it can be anyone we love?" Crowley asked tentatively.

"Actually," Anathema said, "because we’re trying to focus your defensive capability specifically, it'll work best if it's people who love you."

Crowley looked at her, a long searching thing. "Book girl," he said, "that does not make me feel any better about our chances."

"No, I'm pretty sure this is a good thing!" Newt said brightly. "We can start with the list of people you invited to your wedding and go from there." He got out a pencil and scrap paper, and began jotting things down.

"You think we’ll get anyone beyond that?" Crowley asked dubiously.

Just then, the bell above the door chimed. 

“Hello, everyone!” the woman called out. “Is there a party or something? It’s never this crowded in Fell’s!” 

Aziraphale couldn’t place the woman. That, he supposed, was the result of moving out to the country and leaving the shop to be run by a handful of employees.

“Hello, Becca!” Taiga called in return. “It’s a witch meeting, basically, but it’s an important one because we’re doing a protection spell for my Uncle and Ommer. They got some bad news and we’re trying to make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible.”

“Oh, no!” Becca said. “Is Mr. Fell or his spouse ill? Or is that too personal a question? I only know them in passing. But do let me know if there’s anything I can do!”

“Actually,” Taiga said, “you could pledge your energies to them as part of the protection spell, if you’d like. We’re trying to get as many people as possible.”

“Well, count me in!” Becca said, smiling sweetly at the two of them. “Fell’s has been a blessing to me these past couple of years, and if there’s anything I can do to return that blessing, I’d like to try.”

As the spell took hold, Aziraphale looked at Crowley with a pleased smile. They had a chance, a real one, if Aziraphale knew anything about it.

-

In general, prayers are the source of an angel’s power. Prayers to the Archangels give them access to the raw material for miracles, and lesser-known angels often have to be gifted power to do anything of particular note.

Prayers directed at the Archangel Raphael go into a sort of pocket, a holding area for misdirected prayers. 

There are a few of these, for prayers directed at angels that humans seem to have invented and do not, in fact, exist, or prayers directed at angels in general, or other ambiguous circumstances. 

Prayers from these pockets are assigned to other angels, either volunteers, or, for prayers that require a little more attention, via special assignment. The energy for the miracle comes with the assignment, meaning the angel performing the miracle doesn’t need special dispensation of power. 

It can be a bit of a rush, for an angel who isn’t used to the regular current of prayers directed to the Archangels.

Raphael’s pocket is… a little different.

It still works on pretty much the same principles, but. Well. Something about the energy is a bit off, so in general it's only the angels who are A Little Weird who volunteer to answer prayers to Raphael. 

Several have, in fact, been assigned to Aziraphale for the very fact that he doesn’t seem to mind.

Several of these, unbeknownst to the rest of Heaven, have been passed on to Crowley, via the Arrangement.

-

In the end, the list of names and addresses contained hundreds of people.

Seven hundred and eighty-two, to be exact. 

“Do we know that many people?” Crowley asked, eyebrows turning to confused squiggles.

“They’ve all met one or the other of you, yeah, and those that you don’t know well have heard stories about you,” Newt told them. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

“Who’s Sarah Linney, then?” Crowley asked, picking an unfamiliar name off the list. 

“A regular for a few months,” Newt said. “I’ve been helping her avoid an ex who’s been stalking her. Gotten good at destroying the right phone, even at a distance.” He smiled a bit sadly. “She’s seen both of you around, even if she tends to stay quiet herself. Anyway, she’s gotten close to Jess, so she’s heard a lot of the best stories about you two.”

“Jeremiah Black?” Crowley asked next.

“Oh, you know him! Friend of Brian’s, asked you your advice about putting in a green roof?”

Crowley nodded in recognition. “Okay, green roof Jerry. I remember. But. There are so many names, they can’t all know us!”

“You’re kind of legends,” Newt told them. “There are a lot of people out there who know you one way or another. One of the kids has brought them into the shop, or one of the Them, or Anathema and the witches, or Tracy and her knitting circle. Believe me, I have more people who know me by name than I ever thought I could when I joined the Witchfinders to get me out of the house. And most of them have had reason to speak to one of you, when you’re around. The shop is something phenomenal. It’s a hub of community. And I’ve been honored to manage it for you. So believe me when I say that I know the community, and I know who to ask about something like this.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. “Right, then.” He looked a little shellshocked. 

Aziraphale slid an arm around his waist and gave him a bit of a squeeze, for reinforcement. “I’m so pleased about what you’ve done with the shop, Newton,” he said. “It really is so much nicer with all of this human love in it, rather than just ours. I didn’t realize so much of it was actually directed at us, and I’m not entirely certain how we’ve managed to earn it.”

“I could list the reasons,” Newt said with a bit of a smile, “but that list would be much longer.”

It had been a quiet Sunday afternoon in the shop, not nearly as busy as the previous day. But Warlock and Pepper had just gotten back from their queerplatonic honeymoon in Paris, so Anathema had come to the shop to add their energy to the spell, along with any other walk-ins they might have. 

Anathema had drafted a letter to send out to the people on the list. Pepper pored over the letter with an eye to spelling and grammar, which were not Anathema’s strengths. This made more sense when one kept in mind that the text she'd read the most often over the course of her formative years had been published before the invention of standardized English spelling.

The letter said:

Hello, friends.

We’re contacting you on behalf of two beings. You may know them as Mr. Fell and Crowley, or Ezra and Anthony, or Uncle Az and Ommer AJ. If you're among a select few, you may even know them as the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley.

They need your help.

They’ve recently gotten some difficult news, and I and my coven are performing a spell to collect positive energy for them in their time of need. If you would be willing to dedicate yours, please contact us by one of the methods provided and we can arrange an appointment for the necessary ritual.

The community surrounding AZ Fell & Co. is a strong and supportive one, and so much of that is due to Mr. Fell and his spouse. Any threat to them is a threat to our community. This would be a significant and appreciated way to combat the oncoming threat.

Thank you for your attention. Please pass this along to anyone you can think of who might be willing to dedicate their energy to this cause.

Sincerely,

Anathema Pulsifer-Device and Family

“Do you think it’s wise to refer to us as an angel and a demon?” Aziraphale asked. “I know many people won’t believe, or might be otherwise put off.”

“Oh, yeah,” Warlock told them. “It won’t be a problem. If anyone really doesn’t want to know, they’ll just think it’s from an RPG or something. Like they know your characters in D&D, or from online games, or a LARP.”

Aziraphale wouldn’t have understood any of that, except Crowley had been the Dungeon Master for the Them for several years now, and Aziraphale had actually joined in after he’d gotten the general idea. He assumed these were all, similarly, games of pretend where one might have different forms or abilities. “Oh, I see. That’s all right, then.”

So Anathema printed out the letter, and they spent a long night addressing and stamping envelopes.

“I invented junk mail, you know,” Crowley offered, somewhere in the middle of the stack.

“You did not,” said Pepper.

“Why must you always doubt me?” Crowley asked her.

“Some things are truly evil,” Pepper told him, “and junk mail is one of them. You, Crowley, are not evil. So it can’t have been you.”

Crowley frowned at her. “Why are you helping us send junk mail if it’s evil, then?” he asked.

“This is not junk mail,” she said in a scathing tone. “This is a set of invitations, like your wedding invites. Not coupons.”

“Same concept,” he told her. “Concept’s not that evil. What humans did with it? That’s true depravity.”

Pepper eyed the stack of envelopes, which covered the small table almost entirely. “You may have a point,” she conceded. 

-

Over the next week, the ritual was done again and again. The circle was kept carefully intact, in case they needed to make more oil, which they did, a couple of times. Aziraphale and Crowley each felt hundreds of little pings as more and more people were added to the spell. Most of them came to the bookshop, but Anathema made a stop at an art gallery where Crowley had had a few shows for those who found that location more convenient, and visited some who couldn’t easily travel, like the two ladies from Tracy’s knitting circle who were feeling a bit under the weather, and a friend of Brian’s who had chronic pain.

Over the weekend, Warlock flew in some of his school friends from America. They knew Crowley and Aziraphale as Nanny Ash and Brother Francis, and had only ever seen Nanny Ash on video chat, and heard stories of Brother Francis. But their threads snapped into place, all the same. 

Warlock and Pepper trawled the supernatural communities online for locals who had had interactions with the two supernatural beings before they’d retired to the country, many of whom referred to them as “Soho cryptids” or similar. There were a handful of people who’d only followed the cryptid stories online, not even had encounters, who were still willing to make the pledge. 

It was a strange sort of love, but their threads twanged with it, nonetheless.

They started to feel the power truly pooling. Not challenging Heaven or Hell’s weight of power, not yet, but they were beginning to see that they might be able to, given time.

The rope became a cable. The kind that carries power and messages under seas. The kind that holds up bridges.

Which was good, because their deadline was approaching.

“If this works,” Anathema told them one morning, “you’ll need to keep it going. Keep collecting new people, because we are human and we won’t be around forever. I hope my little ones will have their own little ones and they’ll help you protect this world, too.”

Crowley blew out a breath before asking, “Is this a cult?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. It hadn’t even occurred to him, but it did appear to have some of the hallmarks.

Anathema shook her head. “It’s not a cult, you’re not dictating this to us and you’re not manipulating us into doing this, or into staying.” She pursed her lips. “This… might be a religion.”

Crowley looked like he was going to vomit. 

A thought was coalescing in Aziraphale’s mind. “Religion… doesn’t necessarily mean worship,” he ventured.

“That’s true,” Anathema said. “I wouldn’t say that I worship either of you. My kids might, a little, but they’ll grow out of it.” She smiled. 

“What’s the difference, do you think?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I suspect,” she said carefully, watching Crowley, “it has to do with fear, or maybe just awe. But they’re in the same neighborhood. There’s a reason, I’m guessing, that angels are always saying ‘be not afraid.’ But you never have to say that, not either of you. You’ve never scared anyone except in defense, to get them to go away. You’ve never scared anyone to try and get something out of them. Never even intimidated them, not really.”

“You’ve never seen him with his houseplants,” Aziraphale commented softly. “But I think you’re right. They do worship him, but he keeps them so he doesn’t have to act like that with anyone who ought to have free will.”

“I was never afraid of you when I found out what you are,” Anathema said to Crowley. “Never the slightest bit. And even those of us who might have been - we’re long past that. We’re friends. This isn’t worship, it’s the kind of love you get between equals.”

“Then why do all this for us?” Crowley asked, sounding bewildered.

“You have the best chance of fighting this enemy,” she told them. “You have knowledge and abilities I don’t, just like I have knowledge and abilities you don’t. Next time, maybe I step up. Maybe Newt steps up.” She laid a gentle hand over one of Crowley’s. “None of us are going to face this alone. Okay? We’re doing what we can for you now because we know you’d do the same for us.”

“So this isn’t the same as setting ourselves up as another thing for humanity to bow down to, like the big bosses Above and Below?” Crowley asked. “I know I said we’re on a third side, us and humanity, but I don’t want to end up just another authority, like Them.”

“You won’t be,” Anathema assured him. “This isn’t worship. It’s not that kind of religion.”

“And even if it were,” Aziraphale said softly, looking at Crowley. “Would that really be so bad?”

Crowley made a face. “Guess you’re used to the idea. Makes sense, people worshiping you.” His voice was full of affection, with just the slightest tinge of bitterness. “Me, not so much.”

“Whyever would that be?” Aziraphale asked.

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or not,” he said, in a tone that tried to be light but failed.

“No, darling,” said Aziraphale, reaching to run a gentle finger down Crowley’s cheek. “I mean the question quite earnestly. You’ve always been so beautiful, and so interesting, and so kind, and I regret the many times I’ve reminded us both that we were on opposite sides, to stop all that from pulling me in. You were nearly irresistible.”

Crowley had been praised by hundreds of strangers for his paintings, and by Aziraphale, regularly, for the last fourteen years. But even fourteen years had a hard time standing against six thousand, Aziraphale supposed, as he watched Crowley slouch and shrug.

“M just a demon,” he murmured. “Nothing special.”

“All of these lovely friends of ours would disagree,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“I’ll disappoint them. I’ll mess it up. I’d make a terrible deity.”

“I can’t think of anyone better to stand in defense of humanity.” Aziraphale sighed softly. “You’re not going to ruin anything.”

“Well. Maybe not now, but.” Crowley winced. “You know what they say about power.”

“Just remember why we’re doing this,” Aziraphale assured him, “and it will be fine.”

-

The images of the archangel Raphael vary.

His hair is often described as red, sometimes dark, sometimes burning bright.

Quite a few of the acts attributed to Raphael seem to have resulted from Aziraphale and Crowley being in the same area and attempting to thwart each other in an increasingly desultory fashion.

Depending on who you ask among humans, they may tell you that Raphael is one of the four great archangels, or that he is a saint who heals and watches over various people, or that he does not officially exist.

None of these are entirely wrong.

-

Thirteen days after the warnings had arrived from Heaven and Hell, Anathema finally found time to make her way down to the South Downs to perform the ritual with their neighbors there.

Crowley had hemmed and hawed about his pronouns that morning before deciding that he was still a he, although not as strongly as he sometimes was. He was wearing mostly masculine clothing but with his long hair flowing free and wearing heavy kohl, or whatever the humans were calling it these days, which was absolutely bewitching to Aziraphale. It was always lovely when Crowley was comfortable enough to wear eye makeup around their friends who knew what they were, instead of simply hiding his eyes.

“I’ll check again this afternoon,” Aziraphale had said, kissing him on the cheek. 

“Thanks,” Crowley answered, looking as if he was still mulling over whether to change his mind.

After lunch they went to sit in the front garden. When Aziraphale asked about pronouns again, matters were much the same, so when Anathema showed up at their front gate, husband and oldest child in tow, Aziraphale referred to Crowley as him. He didn’t look entirely comfortable about it, but then Taiga bounded up. They’d apparently decided to combine a smart waistcoat and tie with a ruffled skirt for the day, and they were beaming. 

“Hallo, Uncle!” Taiga said, hugging Aziraphale, and he was reminded vividly of Adam’s energy at their age. 

“Good afternoon, dear,” Aziraphale replied. “You look very sophisticated in that tie.”

“Thanks!” they chirped easily, and turned their attention to Crowley. “Hallo, Ommer!”

Crowley grinned broadly, relaxing in a way he hadn’t all morning. “Well, hallo to you too, Nibling,” he said.

Aziraphale didn’t quite understand the whole gender thing, really, but he always did his best to make Crowley feel comfortable. Occasionally, Crowley would get in a mood where pronouns were just difficult. Aziraphale had noticed that one thing that tended to help was calling Warlock and hearing him refer to Crowley as “Nanny.” Aziraphale was pleased to note that this sort of thing didn’t seem to be exclusive to their godson anymore.

“Blythe and Orison are with Gramma Pulsifer,” Anathema told them, “but Taiga really wanted to come see you today and help out. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s marvelous,” Aziraphale said. “Your children are always welcome here, my dear.”

“Don’t say that unless you want to be volunteered as babysitters constantly,” Newt joked. “You’ll have little troublemakers up to your ears.”

“Little troublemakers are one of my favorite things,” Crowley said, hefting Taiga onto his shoulders.

“That’s it,” Anathema said. “Next time we need a quiet evening out, you’ll be our first call.”

“Fine by me,” Crowley replied.

“It is a bit of a drive,” Newt hedged, now that it seemed like it might be a serious prospect. “Tadfield to the coast.”

“Eh,” Anathema said. “In college I used to drive out from the California coast to Vegas for the weekend. This? This is no biggie.”

“Vegas, eh?” Crowley said interestedly. “You gamble?”

“Well, back then, it wasn’t so much gambling as testing Agnes,” Anathema replied with a dry smile. “After Armageddon, just living has felt enough like gambling to me.”

Newt made a sympathetic noise, and Anathema leaned into his side fondly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to read the rest of Agnes’s sequel?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’m sure,” said Anathema. Her hand tangled with Newt’s.

Soon after that, the neighbors started dropping in, and Newt greeted them and explained the ritual while Anathema and Taiga went about the business of witching. Crowley put his sunglasses on and watched the procession of friends and acquaintances with an inscrutable look on his face. 

One of their most elderly neighbors, known only as John-from-down-the-pub (part of a futile attempt on the part of Crowley and Aziraphale to not get attached at this late a date) struck up a conversation with Newt about how everyone was always on their phones nowadays and other ways to do things were disappearing. Every store had an app, for heaven’s sake! Newt commiserated, and he ended up offering to walk John home in exchange for a look at his antique printing press and a cuppa.

The rest of them went inside again for tea, and Aziraphale allowed Taiga to pick some biscuits out of their broad selection. Meanwhile Crowley took off his sunglasses and peered at Anathema. 

“Level with me,” he said. “How many of these people are only in this because of Aziraphale?”

“None of them,” Anathema said firmly.

“You can’t know that,” Crowley objected.

“Actually I can,” she said. “I’m very careful with my wording. I give people a choice, either or both. No one has yet to dedicate their energy to only one of you.”

He looked doubtful, but Anathema continued, “You said you can feel these connections, right? If they pledged without meaning it, the connection wouldn’t form.”

Crowley blinked at her for a moment. And then another.

He made a noise, biting his lip, and then flailed one arm, as if shooing away some of the things in his head so he could pay attention to the others.

"So does that mean that these are two separate pools of energy?" he asked. "Or can we draw on each other's reserves, too?"

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows as he set the teapot on the table. That was an interesting question.

"Oh, I hadn't thought about that," Anathema said, eyes widening, "but there's a simple enough way to make that possible."

"What?" Crowley asked.

"We do the ritual twice more, and you pledge your energy to each other."

"Oh, of course," said Aziraphale. "Of course we will."

"Are we compatible enough for that?" Crowley asked, staring at the space behind Aziraphale where his pure white wings would be if they were visible.

"I don't see why not," said Anathema. "Not if you can both use the energy we're collecting."

"Well," said Crowley. "Worth a shot, then, I suppose." He took a breath. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are," Aziraphale agreed.

Anathema always took the ritual seriously, but now her solemnity was palpable. She took the oil out of her bag. The little vial she'd brought had been depleted over the course of the afternoon (many, many more neighbors had shown up than even Aziraphale had expected), but there was just enough of the fragrant oil pooled in the bottom.

She smeared the oil onto Aziraphale's left hand, and said, "Principality Aziraphale, do you agree to dedicate your energies to the cause of your spouse, the Demon Crowley?"

"Always," Aziraphale said without reservation. "Yes."

"So shall it be," Anathema said. 

It didn't feel quite like the other threads. It wasn't pulled tight, as if it was suspended, waiting for something.

Anathema turned to Crowley, the last drops of the oil on her fingertips. She swiped it across the palm of Crowley's right hand. 

"Demon Crowley," she intoned, "do you agree to dedicate your energies to the cause of your spouse, the Principality Aziraphale?"

"Yes," Crowley said immediately. "Of course."

"So shall it be."

It felt to Aziraphale like an electric spark had jumped between the two of them.

"Oh," said Aziraphale. 

"Ngk," said Crowley.

The weight of the power felt like it had more than doubled, although perhaps that was the shock of it all coming together at once.

There was something else odd about it, though. Something… familiar, and almost… Heavenly.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s hand, looking flustered the way he had been before his first art show, before opening the doors between the parts of him he’d poured out onto canvas, and the eyes of the world. Aziraphale grasped his hand firmly, Aziraphale’s left hand to Crowley’s right hand, the places they’d been anointed coming into contact.

The strands of power all came into brilliant focus, and Aziraphale knew immediately what he’d been sensing about the extra power.

“Oh, those are prayers.”

Aziraphale hadn’t had many people pray to him, specifically, in his capacity as an angel, but it had happened. He recognized the feeling. And they’d just had at least a few hundred prayers’ worth of power dumped into their pool.

Crowley wrenched his hand away from Aziraphale’s with a noise of anguish, curling in on himself in his chair.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale ventured, but wasn’t sure where to begin.

There was just a flash of slitted yellow eyes before Crowley managed to reach into his jacket and slam his sunglasses back onto his face. He grumbled something inaudible, but the others knew him well enough to wait him out until he could speak clearly again.

Turning to Anathema, he asked in a rush, “How do we undo this?”

“You want to take back your pledge?” Anathema asked, eyebrows knitting furiously, as if they’d forgotten to make a present for someone until the last minute and were now powering through a scarf.

Crowley made another noise that wasn't quite words, and then said, "No. Yes. This isn't… I meant it, I still do, but…"

"Darling," Aziraphale said, reaching for his hand again but this time only brushing fingertips softly across knuckles, "can you tell me what you're feeling?"

There was a silence broken only by Taiga dropping a biscuit and diving under the table for it. That seemed to shake Crowley loose of his paralysis a bit.

"I'm scared, angel," Crowley whispered, barely a breath. "I'm so scared. The last fifteen years have been like a dream, a lovely dream, and I feel like I'm about to wake up.” He shook his head, visibly banishing the softness he'd shown. “It's all going wrong. And you know what's not helping? Your superiority and your unwavering faith!" He waved a hand vaguely Up. “That we can have anything like what Upstairs has without it twisting and shattering! That things could just be undone, that I could go back to being anything like what I was Before.”

“No, that's not what this is!” Aziraphale insisted. “I'm scared too! But you are the one being I trust to rein me in if I start to act like them! Like Gabriel, or Sandalphon, or, well, Her,” he admitted, voice going a bit hushed at the end there. “Mysterious and withdrawn from the humans we claim to love.”

Crowley uncurled just a bit from his impossibly tight ball of limbs. “You could never,” he said.

“So trust me, and I shall trust you,” Aziraphale offered. “Just as you are, my beloved demon.”

“I do trust you,” Crowley said, and then he dissolved into stammering nonsense again. 

Aziraphale pouted thoughtfully. “Tell me what else is troubling that head of yours.”

Crowley launched himself out of his chair and began to pace. Moving seemed to help dislodge thoughts and turn them into words. “I told you, I don’t want to be a god or an archangel or anything like one, I don’t want to Rise. I don’t want to have this much power. I don’t want to claim I have some kind of authority, not like this, not like... I don’t want to be a symbol, you know what humanity does to those."

"I do," Aziraphale murmured.

"What do they do?" Taiga asked, frowning in confusion.

Aziraphale's voice was hushed as he said, "The same thing they did to a kind-hearted carpenter from Galilee."

"Or the last true witch in England," Anathema said with quiet contemplation.

Images of wooden pillars and heavy iron nails went through all their heads.

Taiga was the first to speak again. “Do you think I should stop trying to be a witch because of what they did to Agnes?” they asked.

“No, dearheart,” Aziraphale told them. “I know all too well how fear can stop us from doing things we love, and things we know are right. And I have wished many times that I hadn’t let it stop me.”

“I want to be a witch so I can help people. And that’s why you’re doing this, right?” Taiga asked. “To help people. To help the whole world.”

“I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear,” Anathema said, “especially after everything I said about all of us standing together in this, but this part? Holding the power, being the advocates of humanity? I’m pretty sure you’re the only ones who can do it.”

Crowley looked at the three of them helplessly.

“Darling,” said Aziraphale, standing and looking at his spouse, uncertain but unwilling to let fear stop him this time. “You’ve risked so much to save this world we both love. And yes, it was dangerous." He took a shaky breath as he remembered Crowley's trial. "Hell tried to make an example of you. You survived. I made sure of it. I can't promise it will work out just as well this time. But I will do everything I can." He offered his hand to Crowley.

"I know," Crowley said solemnly.

They hadn’t said their marriage vows in front of an altar, but the ground under their feet had felt sacred somehow, simply by virtue of what they were saying. This was like that, too. A leap of faith, faith in each other.

“You really think this is the best chance we’ve got?” Crowley asked, stepping towards Aziraphale.

“Yes,” Aziraphale told him. “But we’ll find another way if it’s too much for you.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses and looked Aziraphale in the eye for a long moment, then seemed to make a decision.

"All right," he said. "Yes. If you’re by my side."

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. "Always."

They took each other’s hands again. Crowley’s right to Aziraphale’s left, letting the palms of their hands press together. Letting the feelings of power flow through them. 

Taiga blinked up at them from their place at the table. “You’ve only got one aura,” they said with wide eyes. 

Crowley frowned. “Is that right?” he asked, glancing at Aziraphale, and then Anathema.

“Not… quite,” Anathema said, squinting at them.

Just then, Newt let himself in the front door, and stared at the pair of them as well, although as far as Aziraphale knew, he couldn’t see auras the way his wife and children could. He cocked his head to one side and said, “Wait. Who’s that and where did Aziraphale and Crowley go?”

“What do you mean?” Anathema asked, turning towards him and looking between him and the pair. “They’re right… Why are you looking at me like that. Newt, you’re worrying me. What do you see?” She walked up to peer at him more closely.

“Someone with the brightest red hair I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Why? What do you see?”

Anathema turned around to gesture at the angel and the demon. Her eyes widened as she looked at them. “...Oh,” she said. “The same as you, I think. Plus their auras. Which I was already seeing sort of melted together. But that’s… you’re… still Aziraphale and Crowley, right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley told her. 

“How odd,” said Aziraphale.

“It is odd,” Anathema agreed. “You sound like both of you, or neither of you. I can’t tell which of you was just talking.”

“Both,” they ended up saying together, and then side-eyed each other.

“I’ve never seen anybody side-eye themselves before,” Anathema commented. “Wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”

“Huh,” they said, again simultaneously, but this time they decided not to question it. 

-

The four of them were finally sitting down to their tea (a second round, in Newt’s case) when there was a distinct… scent, for lack of a better word, from the backyard.

Anathema raised her head suddenly. “Oh,” she said, “your wards just did... something.”

“I felt it too,” Taiga agreed. “Something big.”

“What kind of thing?” Newt asked, alarmed.

Crowley stood, eyes on the back door. “They're coming,” he said.

“Who?” Taiga asked.

Aziraphale looked at them solemnly, and said, “Heaven and Hell.”

He rose and stood beside Crowley, and their hands fell together automatically, as they had done so many times. Crowley turned his head back to say, “Stay inside, all of you. Keep Taiga safe.”

“We trust you,” Newt said.

“But we’ll be here to help,” Anathema added, “if you need us.”

Aziraphale gave the family a smile. Then, together, they walked out the door. 

The gate out to the orchard stood open, the latch broken. 

Uriel, Michael and Gabriel, Beelzebub, Dagon and Hastur all stood in the garden, anger in their eyes.

Crowley and Aziraphale walked out to the center of the garden, trying not to show fear on their faces but holding to each other’s hands tightly.

Michael cocked their head at the two of them and asked, “Who are you? What are you?”

“Both very good questions,” Crowley replied.

Uriel narrowed her eyes at a place that might have been halfway between them. “You're Raphael,” she said.

“Oh, is that right?” Aziraphale asked, fascinated.

-

Raphael stands before the hosts of Heaven and Hell, not quite an angel, and yet not quite anything else, either. At least nothing else known.

Something new.

They look different depending on one’s perspective and distance. From afar, they are the rod of asclepius, a snake wrapped around a rod, or possibly a sword, and wreathed in a subtle halo of fire. From the mid range, when you are close enough to see faces, they are a single figure with bright, glowing fiery red hair and a complex arrangement of layered, rust-red robes.

From up close, close enough to shake hands, or from behind, they are the two of them, holding hands, and Aziraphale has the flaming sword, and - this will be funny later - Crowley has the first weapon he could find to hand, an old pitchfork that had been left in their old barn turned outsize gardening shed.

But only those on their side, those who stand with them, can see that they are two figures, the same two figures they always have been.

Aziraphale and Crowley.

-

“If you're Raphael,” Gabriel said, wheels visibly turning behind his eyes (literally, for those who could see his aura), “then you're an Archangel.”

Crowley looked down at the two of them, a common demon and a Principality the same as they always had been, to his eyes. “I don't think so.”

“But you stand on the side of heaven?” Beelzebub asked suspiciously.

“No,” Crowley said immediately and vehemently. 

Aziraphale continued. “But not Hell, either. On the side of earth.”

“Enough of this,” Michael said. “We’re here for Crowley and Aziraphale. Let us see them.”

Aziraphale and Crowley turned just enough to look each other in the eye. Then, in unison, they said, “You’ll have to come through me.”

Beelzebub grinned fiercely, and said, “Much obliged.” They summoned hellfire with a gesture, and breathed it straight at Raphael.

Several things happened simultaneously, then. Both Aziraphale and Crowley released their wings automatically, and Crowley mantled around Aziraphale. He didn’t break his hold on Aziraphale’s hand to do so - in fact, his grip only got tighter. 

Crowley’s wings didn’t stop the gout of flame, which washed over them both, seeming to dance with delight reflected in the great red multifaceted eyes of Beelzebub’s aspect.

A wave of visceral horror and a flood of words came from Crowley’s direction - a litany of “No, no no!” interspersed with “Should have teleported, bless it,” or “Why didn’t I stop time? Could have. Should have.”

Aziraphale could hear him, even though he didn’t seem to be speaking aloud. The words flooded across their bond too fast for speech, for one thing. 

So Aziraphale took a breath, and he told Beelzebub defiantly, “Your hellfire can’t hurt me.”

Sure enough, there was no pain. The flames were warm along the lengths of Aziraphale’s feathers, which stayed fluffy and white as ever. His body seemed to remember how to absorb the heat and thrive on it.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand, and tried to send reassurance down the link between them, the route by which Crowley’s panic was radiating to him. 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, seeming to see what was happening, and dread turned to confusion.

The hellfire felt almost alive to Aziraphale, as if it was a wild beast that had sniffed at him and decided that he wasn’t something good to eat, after all. 

Had he fallen? He wondered idly. It had been years since he truly worried about the possibility. He was curious. He could have fallen without noticing, he supposed.

Michael seemed to think so. 

They snapped and slung in the same motion. Aziraphale’s wings darted out, but were only halfway around Crowley before the two of them stood, drenched and blinking at each other, dripping holy water.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, heart racing in his chest. He put his unoccupied hand over it, as if to still it. He watched Crowley, who seemed to be neither crying out in agony nor dissolving. “Oh, my goodness!”

“Well,” said Crowley. “Seems like that’s. Uh. Not going to work either.” He snapped himself dry, and slowly, he began to smile. 

Hastur glared suspiciously between Raphael and Michael. “That was hellfire,” Hastur said. “I could feel it. And you? Raphael?” He spat the name. “You’ve got demon in your core, I can smell it.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale said readily enough, and his husband fought a near-hysterical burst of laughter.

Hastur snarled, and he turned on Michael with a venomous glare. 

“This is a trick,” he said slowly, advancing on the Archangel. “It has to be. That’s not real holy water! It never was, you holy wanker! Fraud! Let me have that!” And he reached to wrestle the pitcher out of Michael’s hand.

Michael didn’t seem terribly concerned about this, and in fact they effectively assisted the demon in upending the pitcher over his own head.

A few terrible moments of screaming later, there was a puddle of Hastur soaking into the earth of the cottage garden.

“Well, that’s not going to be any good for the soil,” Crowley remarked in a way that was clearly meant to sound offhand. Aziraphale squeezed his hand once more. That was never going to be a pretty sight, no matter how horrible the entity it was happening to. They’d both seen it before; neither had wanted to see it again. 

Gabriel eyed the mess with clear disapproval, before clearing his throat and approaching them. “Well,” he said. “Raphael, is it? I have to say, you’re not at all what I expected from the prophecies, et cetera. But you’re an Archangel, after all, and I’m sure we can find a way to work together.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it, if I were you,” said Crowley, a distinct edge to his voice that even Gabriel couldn’t pretend to miss.

“All right, well,” Gabriel said, slightly flustered and annoyed about it, “Your loyalty may be to Earth, but you will let me see Aziraphale. He’s my responsibility. He is of Heaven.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and he said, “I think you’ll find he is of me.”

Gabriel blinked at him for a moment, stymied. Then he shook himself, and began taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said, “but if it’s the only way to get things done, I will use force.”

“And what kind of force do you intend to try,” Crowley drawled, “that you think has a better chance than what our side has already survived, multiple times now?”

"Righteousness," Gabriel said simply, and marched towards them, weaponless. His eyes glowed a brilliant violet, flashing on into the ultraviolet, and his knuckles were white as he raised his fists.

Aziraphale supposed one had to give him points for pure confidence.

They weren’t sure what Gabriel could do, but they were certain they shouldn’t wait to find out. Just as Gabriel got close enough to them that he ought to have seen it was the pair of them, and his eyes began to widen, they struck back. 

The well of power that the two of them had been granted swelled inside them, and though they weren’t sure how the decisions were made, they moved as one, a flaming sword held in one hand and a storm of fangs and scales moving in on Gabriel from the other side.

Teeth caught, coils held, sword cut, fire burned. And Gabriel was discorporated.

It had all felt like barely more than half a second. 

"Did you just smite him?" Uriel asked, looking somewhat shellshocked. 

"Not quite," said Aziraphale, who had performed an angelic smiting or two in his time. "But perhaps a close neighbor."

“Impossible,” Michael murmured.

“Powered by the worship directed to an angel?” Uriel asked, looking disgusted. “Using heaven's power against heaven? That's heresy. It shouldn't work.”

“No,” Crowley said, looking not at Uriel but at his and Aziraphale’s joined hands, as if he understood something new. “Powered by something you could not possibly understand.”

“It’s not Heaven’s power,” Aziraphale elaborated. “Heaven’s power is built on the reverence towards superior beings. This power comes from love, the love that can only be experienced by those who stand together as equals.”

Uriel looked hard at them. “But you are Raphael.”

Crowley frowned. “I mean, I’m not sure. I don’t think we are.”

Aziraphale turned to him and reminded him, “We did answer the majority of prayers in Raphael's prayer log.”

“We?” Uriel asked curiously, peering at them. 

“Come closer, Uriel,” Aziraphale said. With Crowley’s hand in his, he no longer feared her or what she might try.

Well, and especially after what they had done to Gabriel when he’d tried.

Between one step and the next, they could tell by the look on her face that she saw the two of them individually now, her perspective shifted just enough. Taiga had compared the effect to something called a ‘magic eye puzzle.’

“How are you doing that?” Uriel asked with slightly affronted wonder.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “there is some witchcraft involved, but mostly it’s just love.”

“Eurgh,” said Beelzebub suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention. “You know what, just keep doing whatever this is. I'll be in hell if Crowley needs tormenting.” And then, with a grumble of infernal fire and earth, they and Dagon vanished back into the ground.

“What do you see?” Michael asked with sharp-eyed curiosity.

“Raphael is Aziraphale and Crowley,” Uriel said slowly, as if figuring it out as she went along. “Both of them. They’ve got two corporations, but if I had to guess, they’re linked somehow so that they have a single celestial form, which is what you’re seeing.” She spoke to the two of them again. “So you both really are immune from the weapons of both sides?”

“No sleight of hand necessary,” Crowley agreed, a little quirk at the corner of his mouth as he held Aziraphale’s hand a little more tightly. No, no trickery - their connection was obvious, for those who could understand.

Meanwhile, Newt strode into the garden, eyes on Michael. Aziraphale looked at him with alarm, and then at Michael, who seemed to be on the phone with someone, talking in an urgent, biting undertone.

There was the sound of fingers snapping, and Michael’s phone burst into a miniature conflagration of sparks. They swore, pulling the ethereal device away from their ear and glaring at it, and then at the source of the snap.

Newt. Apparently he could affect Heaven’s technology, as well as earth’s. Whether that had to do with being part of the protective circle or not, Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

Michael took a step towards Newt, but Crowley distracted them by saying, “You’d better go. I'm sure whoever you were calling is in dire need of an update.”

“We'll be back,” Michael said with bitter hostility. 

In a much more even tone, Aziraphale and Crowley spoke together. “We'll be here.”

There was some sweetness in Raphael's smile, and some wickedness. Which of those came from which entity, well, it was difficult to know. Even to the beings themselves.

“Uriel!” Michael snapped. “We're leaving.”

Uriel followed, but she looked back over her shoulder with something like longing.

“How long do you think they’ll stay away this time?” Newt asked, with a lack of fear that was remarkable, considering his personality when they’d met him. But then, a lot had happened since then.

“Longer this time,” Crowley hazarded. “I don’t think they’ll figure out this trick and how to counter it any time soon. I mean, we hardly know how we did it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “They know the potential in worship,” he said, “but this is something beyond what they’ve seen. They’ll be afraid of it until they can learn how it works, and if they can do that, well, then, I think they might be more inclined not to follow Heaven’s hierarchy quite so blindly.” He smiled adoringly at Crowley. “Wouldn’t you agree, love?”

Crowley mumbled something wordless that Aziraphale understood only through long experience with the demon as meaning something like, “Yes, okay, don’t make me admit to being optimistic and believing in the power of love, I love you too.”

Newt beckoned to his wife and eldest child, who were waiting just inside the doorway.

"What happened?" Taiga asked. "Did you really kill that guy who attacked you?"

"No, my dear," said Aziraphale, and finally felt safe enough to let go of Crowley's hand. "Gabriel was only discorporated. He'll get a new body as soon as the paperwork goes through."

"Hastur's dead, though," said Crowley, sounding like he had very mixed feelings about it. "The sodding idiot."

"That did look like an incredibly unpleasant end," Aziraphale said. "I'm glad to know that I won't ever have to watch the same thing happen to you."

"So Crowley is immune to holy water?" Anathema asked curiously.

"I’m not sure if he is," Aziraphale said, frowning thoughtfully, "but Raphael is."

"So what exactly is the functional difference between Crowley being himself and Raphael being themselves?" Anathema asked.

Crowley laughed in a way that sounded like he was not quite all right, but at the moment that seemed perfectly reasonable. "You know," he said, "it’s funny, all day my pronouns have been teetering right on the edge between being 'he' or 'they,' and it’s been driving me bonkers. But now I’m both at once, and it’s… yeah. That’s right."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "As long as we are together," he said, "we have the strength of Raphael. What constitutes 'together,' exactly, is a question we may have to explore some day. But for now, just to be safe, I think we'll stay within arm's reach of each other for a while."

Crowley seemed to agree, as his only reply was to reach out and entwine his fingers with Aziraphale's again.

"So you two are going to be all right?" Newt asked. "We can stick around for a while if you'd rather." 

"That's quite all right," said Aziraphale, "but we’ll be in the bookshop tomorrow if any of our friends would like to come and call on us there. Does that sound amenable to you, Crowley?"

Crowley nodded, and said, "You can let the email list know that things went well, thanks."

The two said farewell to their guests and immediately went to bed, wrapping their arms around each other and simply breathing. They didn't quite sleep, they couldn't bear to close their eyes, but still, as the hours wore on, their breathing slowed and they remembered what normal had felt like for the last few years.

They remembered what it was to feel safe.

-

The bookshop was full when they arrived, Newt and Jess having opened it bright and early, and Anathema having sent that email to pretty much everyone they knew.

There were congratulations all around, and gentle inquiries about what kind of trouble they'd been having. After the discussions they'd been having with Warlock about how people might react, they'd decided to tell the truth, on the main. 

They'd also been influenced in this by Anathema, who had decided that, rather than resuming her study of Agnes's prophecies, she was going to write a book of her own.

"It's going to be about the new shape of the world," she told them eagerly. "About what we've learned, about the limits and rules of the cosmic forces and how we can apply them to a world in which the forces of heaven and hell would like nothing better than to destroy us all. But before I decide what to tell my descendants, I need to know how you intend to go forward with this."

"We certainly intend to keep protecting humanity," Aziraphale said, slightly taken aback. "If that's what you're asking."

"No, I know," Anathema assured. "But to press this advantage, you’ll need to keep building on what we started here. Building the Order of Raphael, or whatever we decide to call it." She gave both of them a serious look. "Are you willing to take this on? To be the face of the side that stands against Heaven and Hell in defense of Earth?"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, seeing nervous determination that matched his own.

"We’ve done it before," he reminded his spouse.

Crowley looked back at him solidly, taking his sunglasses off in a room chock full of humans to do it. He nodded sharply. "And we’ll do it again."

Aziraphale raised his glass, and he said words which were becoming very much a tradition between them: 

"To the world!"


End file.
